


If We Ever Stop Talking, Send Me a Song

by blueruin



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Break Up, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-18
Updated: 2018-01-18
Packaged: 2019-02-27 09:42:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13245582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueruin/pseuds/blueruin
Summary: His heart beats with the text tone, and he knows. He knows that it’s him.Zayn Malik has been waiting for this moment for over two years now, and he’s terrified of what it means. Nothing compares to the feeling of pterodactyls circling in his stomach as he tries desperately to delay the inevitable.So he buries his phone under his pillow and goes about his day. He’s not ready to face it yet. Zayn’s not ready for Harry Styles to cut him from all angles again.Or, Harry tries to reconnect with Zayn after two years of radio silence by sending one specific song everyday until he gets a reply.





	1. Hello, it's me.

**Author's Note:**

> I was perfectly content with staying on the sidelines, but then I saw [this](https://www.facebook.com/WeAreNothingButHumans/photos/a.371135646617302.1073741828.371120479952152/400644570333076/?type=3) and I just had to write it. 
> 
> Each chapter title is taken from a specific song that Harry sends to Zayn everyday. The first one is from Todd Rundgren's "Hello It's Me," which was also used in a [scene](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Jh6s7_TRtM) from the pilot of "That '70s Show" that was referenced in the chapter.
> 
> Thank you to the moderators for organizing this fic fest and making me post it on a Friday. To my loves, Kaia and Tina, thank you for being my early birds and the loveliest cheerleaders. My infinite thanks also go out to [Thrina](http://thrinp.tumblr.com) for the stunning work of art that encapsulated the vibe of the story.
> 
> This was my first attempt at writing fic and the first story I've written in ages. I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it!
> 
> For Kaia.
> 
>  

His heart beats with the text tone, and he knows. He knows that it’s him.

Zayn Malik has been waiting for this moment for over two years now, and he’s terrified of what it means. Nothing compares to the feeling of pterodactyls circling in his stomach as he tries desperately to delay the inevitable.

So he buries his phone under his pillow and goes about his day. He’s not ready to face it yet. Zayn’s not ready for Harry Styles to cut him from all angles again.

It’s a Friday. Zayn wakes up with the sun now. He eats his meals, walks around the neighborhood with his dog Rhino, sleeps early. It’s a stark contrast to how he used to spend his days, which used to drive Harry mad. But he’s grown up now, and he tries to remember to take care of himself everyday. Little by little, that’s how. He starts to recognize subtle changes – making eye contact, standing up a bit straighter, holding a conversation with a stranger for more than five minutes. These may seem insignificant to some, but to Zayn, these changes are monumental. He’s finally in a good place and on his way to being genuinely happy.

Until a text on a random day leaves him in disarray.

Harry’s always been good at that. He shook and dismantled Zayn’s world from the moment they met to the day they parted. Harry came in with the breeze, and nothing prepared him for the flurry of curls and dimples and good manners and that damn coconut shampoo.

So he tries to restore some semblance of order in his life.

He spends the first hour going through his morning routine: take a cold shower, feed Rhino, drink copious amounts of coffee, finish the crossword puzzle.

The second hour passes by in a blur of morning chores and dog treats and Motown songs blasting through the speakers.

On the third hour, he picks up his book and tries to finish one chapter. But his mind wanders off into his bedroom, onto his bed, and under a mound of pillows, where his phone silently waits. Shaking his head in frustration, he stands up and proceeds to yank his books off the shelves. Zayn decides to organize them chromatically for a change. He can always rearrange them later if it doesn’t work, like when the autobiographical order started giving him a headache.

Streaks of sunlight filter through the windows to dance across the walls, and a gentle breeze stops by to give him a kiss on the cheek. He takes a deep breath and smiles for the first time that day. Al Green’s soulful crooning wafts through the room, and he finds himself singing along.

It’s a good day, he thinks. He spends hours with his books and admires his work; the vivid hues of the spines already doing wonders for his mood.

Zayn grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge and rescues his phone from his pillows. He takes a deep breath and finally opens the message.

It’s a link. No salutations, no apologies, no ringing declarations. Just a link to a song. He clicks on it, and the opening notes to a familiar tune immediately transport him to a summer’s day a few years back.

 _Hello, it’s me. I’ve thought about us for a long, long time_.

The sun’s rays were all ablaze, and it was too hot to go outside. They succumbed to the lazy, hazy, crazy daze of the season, and the heat rendered them useless for the day. Zayn resorted to lying motionless on the floor, while Harry made a pitcher of ice-cold pink lemonade.

A Todd Rundgren record played in the background as Harry carefully arranged bowls of fresh fruit and mason jars filled with lemonade around them. Zayn grabbed Harry’s wrist and pulled him down so he’s lying on top of him. Harry’s surprised laughter filled the room just as the music faded. Zayn poked the dimple on his cheek and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Harry beamed at him then rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow to look at Zayn. A new song began to play, and Harry’s eyes lit up in recognition. “Remember when this was playing on _That ‘70s Show_?”

“Donna and Eric lying on top of the Vista Cruiser?” Zayn reached over for a strawberry and popped it into his mouth. “What about it?”

Harry lay back down on the floor and closed his eyes. “Nothing.”

Zayn leaned towards Harry then kissed him softly on the lips.

Harry’s ridiculously pink mouth stretched into a smile as he stared at Zayn. “What was that for?”

“I just wanted to see what it was like.”

Harry sat up and pulled Zayn up by his hands to a sitting position. “What was it like?”

A giggle escaped Zayn’s lips as he replied, “You were there.”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t ready for it.”

Zayn found the entire situation ridiculous and amusing, but he still played along to make Harry happy. “What would you have done differently?”

Harry smirked at him before grabbing his face to lick a wet stripe from his jaw to his cheekbone.

Zayn’s laughter bounced off the walls as he swatted Harry’s head away. “You’re an idiot.”

Harry reached over for a grape and fed it to Zayn. “So are you.”

“That’s true.” 

“’Cause I never want to make you change for me,” Harry sang along to the song that started all this nonsense.

“Yeah?” Zayn asked.

Harry nodded before opening his ridiculously long arms in invitation. Zayn leaned over for a hug, not caring the least bit about the heat or the tightness of Harry’s embrace.

The memory floods Zayn’s head every time he hears the song, and that’s what he thinks about now.

_It’s important to me that you know you are free. ‘Cause I never want to make you change for me._

Zayn chokes back a sob as he listens to the rest of the song. It’s such a Harry thing to do – hitting him with a freight train of emotions with no preamble.

_Think of me. You know that I’d be with you if I could._

“Fucking hell, Harry,” he mutters to himself.

_I’ll come around to see you once in a while._

Zayn lies down on the floor as in that summer from long ago.

_Or if I ever need a reason to smile._

We’ll be okay, he thinks.

_And spend the night if you think I should._

Zayn grabs his phone and puts the song on repeat. He falls asleep on the floor and forgets to send a reply.


	2. The first time ever I saw your face, I thought the sun rose in your eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face" by Roberta Flack.

It’s been 18 hours, 38 minutes, and 21 seconds since Harry sent the first song.

He went out for a run, took a shower, made an elaborate brunch, reorganized his record collection, and took a nap on the lumpy red couch. His sister Gemma rang him a few hours later, so he drove to their favorite frozen yogurt shop to meet her.

Harry kept his phone on vibrate, but that didn’t stop him from shoving his hand in his pocket to check it every few minutes. Gemma’s in the middle of gushing about a book she recently finished, when Harry’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He carelessly dropped his spoon on the table to take out his phone and check the message. Gemma noted the disappointment on his face when Harry realized it’s from his friend Niall (“This week is shit. Everything is shit. Drinks on Sunday?”).

Harry typed a quick reply (“Sure. As long as you’re buying.”) before shoving his phone back into his pocket with an angry huff.

“What’s wrong?” Gemma asked.

Harry shook his head. “What were you saying about that book?”

Gemma narrowed her eyes at him. “Seriously. What is wrong with you? You’ve been distracted this whole time. Is it about work? Are you waiting for an important phone call or something?”

“Or something,” Harry muttered.

An angry quip hovered on the tip of her tongue, but she decided to drop it when Harry turned to look at her. His hair was a mess from running his hands through it one too many times, and his lips looked bruised from chewing on them so much. The garish Hawaiian shirt he’s wearing was wrinkled, and one of the buttons had slipped halfway from its buttonhole. It’s strange that it took her this long to notice him looking uncharacteristically unkempt, but it’s a testament to how good Harry is at keeping up appearances.

Gemma’s never been one to let something go so easily, but she decided to cut him some slack. “You look like a grumpy baby lion,” she said instead.

Harry snorted despite himself. “Thanks.”

Gemma placed her hand on top of Harry’s in a reassuring gesture and tried to convey with her eyes that she’d be there if he needed her. Harry seemed to understand, and he flashed her a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Anyway.” Gemma picked up right where she left off and proceeded to give a detailed list of her favorite things about the book she’d been trying to get him to read.

Harry made sure to listen to every word.

That was seven hours ago.

It is now half past two in the morning, and Harry is wide awake. His silent phone taunts him from his bedside table and makes him wonder if he made a mistake. He didn’t expect an immediate reply, but he hoped for some kind of response at least before the day ended. He’ll take anything at this point; a _hello_ or _fuck off_ or even _who’s this?_ would be better than the excruciating pain of silence.

But he knows Zayn well enough to accept that he needs time to mull things over before doing anything else. So he waits. He’s terrible at waiting, but it took him over two years to realize that he’d wait an eternity for Zayn. So that’s what he does.

Three more hours pass, and Harry is ready to pull his hair out in frustration. So he gets up, grabs his traitorous phone, puts his earbuds in, and goes out for a run.

Harry’s not proud of it, but running is his default response to anything. It can be as simple as stepping out of the room to avoid confrontation, or as major as flying a thousand miles away to figure things out on his own. Today, he runs to clear his head. For a while, it does the trick.

But then a song comes on shuffle, and he’s not prepared for the deluge of emotions that comes with it. The air seemed to hum with the sonorous notes of the cello, tapping and tugging and plucking and pulling at the thread that once connected him to Zayn. He slows down his pace then stops to lean against a tree to relish Roberta Flack’s languorous delivery.

_The first time ever I saw your face, I thought the sun rose in your eyes._

He remembers big whiskey-colored eyes that used to sparkle when directed at him. Harry has often thought of Zayn as a magnificent alien creature that didn’t belong in this world. His impossibly long eyelashes are proof enough of his sheer otherworldliness. But while he can wax poetic about his cheekbones and jawline that are both sharp enough to pierce through his soul, it’s Zayn’s eyes that made him stop in his tracks on that fateful day.

It was finals week, and everyone was rife with desperation and buzzing with frenetic energy. Harry’s been cooped up in his dorm room for days, surrounded by his notes and textbooks and enough cans of Red Bull to kill him. Cabin fever reared its ugly head on the fourth day, so he packed up his things and walked to the library for an all-nighter.

The library was full even at midnight, much to his dismay. It took Harry fifteen agonizing minutes of walking around in search of an empty desk before he noticed him in a quiet corner.

As if sensing eyes on him, Zayn looked up to find a dumbfounded Harry with his messy curls and unevenly buttoned shirt and well-worn pink Converse sneakers. There was no animosity in his stare - just mild curiosity. Zayn held his gaze for a few more seconds before looking back down on his notes.

Harry willed his heart to settle and his feet to move until he reached Zayn’s desk. He waited for Zayn to peer at him through his eyelashes before flashing him a smile that he hoped looked friendly and not predatory. “Hi, I’m Harry. Would you mind terribly if I shared a table with you? Please?”

Zayn eyed him warily before he asked, “Why are you just getting here at this hour?”

“Cabin fever,” Harry replied with a sigh. “Please? Everywhere else is full.” He widened his eyes and jutted out his bottom lip.

Zayn raised a perfect eyebrow, looking the least bit affected by his pathetic attempt at giving him puppy-dog eyes. Harry sighed in defeat then offered him a small smile before turning to leave.

“Wait.” Harry turned around so quickly, he gave himself whiplash. Zayn gestured towards the empty chair. “But only if you stay quiet. I have an exam in ten hours that I’m not entirely prepared for yet.”

Harry mimed zipping his lips shut and crossing his heart. But as he headed to the chair across from Zayn, he tripped over a pile of books in the corner and landed noisily on the floor, sending the contents of his bag flying in different directions. He didn’t notice the murderous glares from the other students because all he could see was Zayn looking at him with an exasperated yet amused expression. He flashed him a sheepish smile and mouthed “sorry” before picking up his things and quietly settling down on his chair.

It took him approximately two hours before he broke his promise to Zayn. As much as Harry wanted to study the intricacies of the human brain, he’d much rather learn about the beautiful boy sitting directly across from him.

“Are you an English major?” was Harry’s first attempt at starting a conversation. Zayn merely narrowed his eyes at him.

A few minutes passed before he tried again with a comment on one of the books on his pile. But Zayn only nodded his agreement before continuing to read.

After another hour of unbearable silence, Harry stood up and stretched his arms over his head. He let out a contented sigh before turning to Zayn. “I think it’s time for a study break.” Zayn just shrugged without looking up from his notes. Frustrated, Harry slumped back into his chair and rummaged around his bag for a snack. “Aha!” He held a triumphant fist in the air as he waved a chocolate bar in front of Zayn’s face. “Want some?”

“No, thank you,” Zayn finally spoke, which Harry considered a victory.

“Come on,” Harry insisted. “It helps improve brain function. Besides, you’ve been studying for hours. You need a break.” He tried for another puppy-dog stare until finally, _finally_ , Zayn’s face softened.

“Does that really work on people?” Zayn asked Harry, who peered at him questioningly. “The pouting?”

“Usually.” Harry opened the candy wrapper and broke off a chocolate square to give to Zayn. “Does acting all mysterious work for you?”

Zayn smirked at him. “Usually.” He popped the chocolate into his mouth, and Harry’s eyes darkened as he watched him lick off the melted bits on his finger. “I’m not mysterious, though. I’m just reserved.”

“Want me to tell you a joke? It’s really funny.”

“No.”

“I’ll tell you anyway.” Harry leaned closer to Zayn and schooled his face into a serious expression. “Knock, knock.”

“I don’t need to hear this.”

“You know I’ll just annoy you into participating.”

“Don’t make me smack you,” Zayn threatened, but Harry could see the corners of his mouth twitching.

Harry gasped theatrically and placed a hand over his heart. “I do not approve of violence, mister.”

Zayn rolled his eyes at him. “Fine. Who’s there?”

Harry beamed at him. “Lil old lady.”

“Lil old lady who?”

“Wow, I didn’t know you could yodel!” Harry smacked his hand on his knee as he laughed at his own joke.

“That was awful.”

“Liloldladywho!”

“Stop that. You’re going to get us kicked out of here.”

“Oh, come on,” Harry said around the end of his laughter. “You didn’t think it was a little bit funny?”

Zayn aimed a menacing look at Harry before giving up and breaking into a giggle. Harry watched with his mouth agape as Zayn’s eyes disappeared almost entirely. It was the prettiest sight that he ever had the pleasure of witnessing up close.

Finally, Zayn turned to look at Harry with his big brown eyes that sparkled and radiated with warmth. “Maybe it was a little bit funny.”

 _Oh_.

“I’m Zayn, by the way,” he said, offering a handshake.

Harry, unable to peel his eyes away from Zayn, felt a surge of warmth from the touch that heated up his cheeks and woke up the butterflies in his stomach in a fluttering panic.

_Oh no._

That was it, he thought.

_And I knew our joy would fill the earth and last ‘til the end of time, my love._

Harry’s reverie breaks just as the music fades, and everything goes extraordinarily quiet.

He sends the song to Zayn and waits.


	3. Who am I without you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Proof" by I Am Kloot.

His heart beats with the text tone, and he knows. He knows that it’s him again.

Zayn didn’t think he’d get another song today. He forgot to reply after the first one, and he intentionally didn’t say anything after the second. How could he ever begin to articulate his thoughts after listening to both songs ad nauseam? What was he even supposed to say? He didn’t get anything but complete and utter silence after they parted ways, so why was Harry reaching out to him now?

It’s been over two years, and he thought he’d finally gotten over it. Gotten over him. But hearing those songs conjured up memories he thought he had buried in boxes in the deep recesses of his brain. His heart felt like a ball of yarn that slowly unraveled with every note of each song. He could sense the familiar stirring of emotions rise from his gut, to his furiously pounding heart, and up to his throat, threatening to erupt and spill over at any moment.

So he sent a bat signal to Louis.

Best friend, partner in crime, brother from another mother, his moving buddy. He’s an acquired taste, but they’ve been friends since they were eight, when Louis barreled into their yard and introduced himself as their neighbor. They’ve used the bat signal for everything from failing grades (Louis) to coming out (Zayn) to nursing broken hearts and losing loved ones.

The response to each distress call is always different – usually booze and weed, sometimes video games and weed, other times clubbing until dawn, and that one time when they almost got arrested for tagging a wall. So Zayn had no idea what to expect when Louis loudly announced his presence on the other side of his door.

“I didn’t know what kind of emergency it was so I brought beer, hash brownies, and-”

“A baseball bat?”

Louis shrugged before placing every item on Zayn’s coffee table. “First thing I saw by the door. Thought it’d be handy if there was an intruder or something.”

Zayn stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Louis. “Thanks.”

Louis pulled away from the hug to scan Zayn’s face for signs of trouble. “Harry?”

“Harry.”

“Fuck.”

Zayn told him about the songs as they got inebriated on his living room floor. Louis leaned against the couch, while Zayn lay on the floor with Rhino. “What do you think I should do? Ignore him? Tell him to fuck off? Ask him to come over? What, Louis?”

Louis groaned. “Fuck, slow down. You’re making my head hurt.” He finished the last of his beer and climbed up onto the couch to lie down. “Fuck him.”

“You mean like, revenge sex?” Zayn asked.

Louis laughed. “No, dumbass. Forget him. You know you don’t owe him anything, right? He was the one who broke things off in the first place. So fuck him.”

“I know that,” Zayn muttered.

Louis sat up and reached for another can of beer. “At least we know he still hasn’t changed.” Zayn tilted his chin up to look at him questioningly. “Still got a flair for the dramatic, that one.”

Zayn smiled despite himself. “That’s true.”

“Personally, I still think you should tell him to fuck off,” Louis snarled. “But you’re not gonna do that, are you?” Zayn shook his head in response. “So ignore him. Wait until he cracks. He will, eventually. He’s an impatient bastard.”

“What if I do that and he decides not to contact me anymore?”

“Do you want him to keep sending you those songs?”

“It’s a slow kind of torture, but yeah,” Zayn admitted. “It feels like the most honest he’s ever been in ages.”

Louis sighed. “Sometimes it really sucks to be you.”

Zayn responded with an empty beer can thrown at his best friend’s head.

That was several hours ago.

Louis went home hungover, while Zayn resolutely refused to leave his bed. Eventually, he had to get up to feed Rhino and take a cold shower. Zayn nibbled on a piece of toast, then crawled back into bed with Rhino curled up comfortably by his feet. He was disappointed when he woke up without a new song, but he was too hungover to overthink it.

Zayn was in the middle of a _That ‘70s Show_ episode when his phone buzzed.

A half an hour before midnight and he’s still in bed, contemplating his next move. Part of him wants to get it over with and listen to the damn song. The other part is still not ready to offer his heart up for the smashing.

As if sensing his disquiet, Rhino crawls towards Zayn and snuggles up against him. Zayn lets out a contented sigh and finally picks up his phone to click on the link.

_Hey, could you stand another drink? I’m better when I don’t think. It seems to get me through._

Zayn recalls the first few weeks after he and Harry broke up, when all he ever did was drink himself to oblivion. He remembers leaving incoherent text messages and lengthy, slurred voicemails - all of them unanswered.

Harry’s absence lingered like a whiff of his perfume and that damn coconut shampoo. He left a gaping hole in his chest and a tight hold on his heart, and all Zayn could do was wait for everything to fade away.

He sent one bat signal, and Louis just knew. Zayn was half a ghost when Louis arrived with supplies, which lasted for only a night.

“Harry?” Louis asked, too afraid to confirm what he already knew the moment he saw his best friend’s disheveled appearance.

Zayn winced and collapsed against him in response, telling Louis everything he needed to know. He came back day after day with more distractions and provisions – anything to keep Zayn from wasting away and disappearing completely.

Harry was every _you_ in all the songs he listened to on loop. He was every face in the crowd, every city on a map, every crevice in his now empty house. Zayn once thought he was the sun to his moon; now he’s become the tear in his eye, the lump in his throat, the elephant in the room.

Everyone dies in different ways, and Harry was his poison.

But it’s a testament to who he is as a person that he just kept on living day after day after terrible day.

It was sad and bad and mad, but he was glad for it. There’s nobody at home with him now, but there once was.

He’s fine. He misses him terribly, but he’s fine.

_Who am I without you?_

Now, over two years later, and his heart’s come undone.

He is a mess again. He is his mess again.


	4. Passionate from miles away, passive with the things you say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Passionfruit" by Drake.

Harry never gets a reply.

He’s sent three songs, but he still hasn’t heard anything from Zayn.

As promised, he went out for drinks with Niall last night and blurted out his plan after only two vodka sours.

“It’s been two years, mate,” Niall commented. “Why are you doing this now?”

Harry covered his face with his hands and groaned. “I honestly have no idea. I woke up one day and heard this Todd Rundgren song, which reminded me of _That ‘70s Show_ and made me think of this one summer with Zayn and I just-” Harry removed his hands away from his face and let out a dejected sigh. “I just really miss him.”

“And no reply, huh?” Niall asked. Harry shook his head. “Do you think he listened to them?”

“I wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t,” Harry admitted.

Niall downed the last of his drink in one steady gulp then turned to him with a serious expression. “Don’t chew me out for this, but did it ever occur to you that he might have moved on? That you’re disrupting his life by sending these songs after two years of silence?”

Harry winced. “Yeah, I’ve thought about that. But I sent them anyway.” He propped both elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

Niall placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “We’ve always known you’re a selfish prick, Hazza. I just wanted to point that out in case it slipped your mind.”

“Well it didn’t. But I still sent them anyway.” Harry jutted out his bottom lip in a sulky pout then fumbled in his pocket for his phone. “And I’m about to send another one because I forgot to do it this morning.”

“Are you sure you want to do that right now?”

“Yes, Niall. This is important.”

“Haz, you’re two drinks away from leaving a drunken voicemail,” Niall told him gently. He looked at his watch to check the time then shook his head in disbelief. “And it’s not even midnight yet.”

“Don’t worry, I’m going to turn off my phone after I send it,” Harry said as Niall narrowed his eyes at him. “I promise.” Harry gulped down the rest of his drink. “Besides, it’s not like he’s going to reply to me anyway.”

Niall let out a frustrated sigh. “I hope you know what you’re doing, mate.”

“I don’t,” Harry muttered. “Maybe he has moved on, and I’m fucking us up even more now. Maybe he did change his number and I’m just sending these songs out into the void.” He flashed him a sad smile. “But I have to try. I gave up on him – on us – before. I won’t do it again now.”

Niall patted him on the head before turning to the bartender to order them another round. Harry sent the third song then turned off his phone, just as he promised.

They didn’t talk about Zayn again for the rest of the night.

Of course, that didn’t mean that he stopped thinking about him. It’s been over two years since he fucked everything up, but he’s thought about him every single day – sometimes for hours, sometimes in passing.

Harry can’t help it. Everything is tinged with fragmented memories of him. He sees traces of Zayn everywhere – a cigarette butt, a doodle on a bathroom stall, a leather jacket on a shop window, graffiti on walls, crossword puzzles, those stupid yellow Minions he’s so fond of, the smell of coffee wafting in the air, a pile of books, a bird tattoo.

Missing someone is the easiest way to feel every second slip away, and Harry has already lost two years of his life. He’s squandered enough time trying to seek solace in momentary pleasures instead of in the warm embrace of the one person who truly mattered.

It’s his fault, he knows. It’s always been his fault. But he’s trying to make up for it now. The first song was an olive branch; the second, a love letter. Last night’s song was a declaration; this one is an admission.

Harry still hasn’t sent it yet, but he knows what it should be. He heard it playing in the cab on his way home from the pub. Harry felt a pang of familiarity as the heady rhythm enveloped him. He listens to a little bit of everything, but this was always Zayn’s kind of music. It’s one of those songs with melancholic lyrics hiding behind an infectious groove. If you listen to it long enough for the chords to stop swaying, you’ll hear the heartache in each verse. If you pay close attention, you’ll hear their hearts breaking.

_Listen, seeing you got ritualistic. Cleansing my soul of addiction for now ‘cause I’m falling apart._

That last day was the worst thing that ever happened to him, but it started out quite nicely with a phone call from Zayn and a promise from Harry. He’d been working as a freelance photographer, which validated and celebrated his propensity for wanderlust and capturing beautiful things. It also meant long stretches of time away from Zayn and miles of empty space between them.

Sometimes Zayn joined him on his travels, getting in a bit of writing while Harry fulfilled his assignments. They’d sneak in a day of aimless wandering just for themselves, then go their separate ways to focus on their own work. But most of the time, Zayn stayed at home while Harry wandered off on his own. Distance was never an issue; Zayn always said that they were only inches apart on a map.

Harry liked to send postcards and letters while he was away. Zayn would write long emails detailing his day. There were phone calls and text messages and Skype sex and surprise visits. Sometimes they were enough.

They’ve learned each other by heart at this point; they could easily recognize when one of them was on the brink of an emotional or mental breakdown. Usually, Zayn would take a few days off to visit or Harry would decline a job offer to go home. They’ve worked out a good system, and they’ve managed just fine.  

But somehow, somewhere between concentrating on selfish pursuits and growing older, the letters stopped coming. They had grown accustomed to each other’s absence that the phone calls became few and far between.

_Passionate from miles away. Passive with the things you say. Passing up on my old ways. I can’t blame you, no._

That last day was the worst thing that ever happened to him, but it started out quite nicely with a phone call from Zayn and a promise from Harry. Zayn had called to wish him a safe flight, and Harry promised to be home soon.

They had been fighting a few days before. Harry was supposed to go home, but he took on another assignment at the last minute and forgot to tell Zayn about it. He turned off his phone so he could focus and finish early, then woke up to a string of panicked messages from Zayn.  

There had been more vicious fights than affectionate teasing, more drunken voicemails than silly banter, more silence than laughter.

Harry had gotten so frustrated that he started going out more frequently with people he had met while travelling. He sought comfort in the warm buzz of alcohol and the company of strangers to fill the Zayn-shaped hole in his chest. Harry always made sure that it never went beyond a hug and a friendly kiss on the cheek. But one day it did, and he’s never forgiven himself for it.

_Listen, harder building trust from a distance. I think we should rule out commitment for now ‘cause we’re falling apart._

Rhino’s enthusiastic barking signaled Zayn of his return, and he welcomed Harry with a hug and a quick peck on the lips. The warmth of the house and the sense of familiarity made him tear up. He missed Zayn, he missed Rhino, and he missed home. But his guilt was eating him alive, and he blurted out his confession before Zayn could ask him about his flight.

“It was only a kiss, I swear.” It really was. But he still shouldn’t have let it happen. No amount of alcohol or loneliness could excuse or erase that.

Zayn turned to look at Harry; his big brown eyes that used to sparkle now glistened with tears. His feet were rooted to the spot, and his hands were clenched into fists on each side. Zayn’s teeth were digging into his bottom lip so hard, he must have drawn blood.

Harry stepped forward and reached out to Zayn, who instinctively recoiled. It hurt Harry to see him like that. Knowing that it was his fault made it even worse.

He threw a string of apologies at Zayn that shattered on the floor and cut them from all angles.

_Don’t pick up the pieces, just leave it for now. They keep falling apart._

Harry knew then that he had ruined the one thing that meant the most to him. It was only a kiss, but it broke Zayn’s spirit and destroyed what they’ve carefully built together for five years.

“I’m sorry,” he said between sobs. “We’ve always known I’d fuck things up eventually. But we’ve been falling apart way before this, babe. And it’s almost always my fault. You’ve let me off the hook more times than I can count; it’s time I do the same for you.” He took a deep breath. “I think we should break up.”

Zayn’s eyes widened then he fumbled for Harry’s hands as if to say, _Oh, love. Come here. Put down that knife. I know you don’t mean it. I swear I’ll be okay. I promise we’ll be fine._

Harry collapsed onto Zayn and continued to cry in muffled sobs against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he repeated as he stepped away from Zayn. “But we both know it’s true. And I refuse to hurt you more than I already have.”

He’s not proud of it, but running was always his default response to anything. It can be as simple as stepping out of the room to avoid confrontation, or as major as flying a thousand miles away to figure things out on his own. This time, he ran to keep Zayn from getting hurt again. Or at least that’s what he believed he was doing.

“Please don’t leave,” Zayn pleaded. Harry winced at the pain in Zayn’s voice. “You just got back. I just got you back.”

“I can’t,” Harry whimpered, digging his nails into his palms. “I can’t stay here knowing what I did to you. To us. I don’t want to keep hurting you.”

Harry packed up some of his things, gave Rhino a hug, then headed to the door. He waited for Zayn to come closer, to kiss him goodbye, to ask him to stay.

But he never did.

So Harry turned around and walked away.

_Passionate from miles away. Passive with the things you say. Passing up on my old ways. I can’t blame you, no._

He liked to believe that he was doing Zayn a favor by leaving that day. Harry thought it was a selfless act to sacrifice his own happiness for Zayn’s freedom. He deserved all the good things in the world, and Harry was definitely not one of them.

Like all tortured souls, Harry wanted to turn his heartbreak into art. But there wasn’t anything beautiful about what he did. He just left. It was just leaving. It was just running away. It was running away as a form of self-preservation.

Harry was an idiot.

He stayed silent for two years because he was ashamed of what he had done. Harry wanted to crawl back into Zayn’s arms and apologize for eternity, but he was terrified that he would get turned away like he deserved. So he stayed away to give Zayn some space and enough time to heal.

If tomorrow wasn’t such a long time, Harry’s life wouldn’t be as lonely as it is. But it’s been two years, and Harry hopes he’s given Zayn enough time. He hopes there’s still a chance for them to pick up the pieces and start anew.

But for now, all he can do is send him a song and wait. So that’s what Harry does.


	5. Now I’m looking for you or anyone like you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Koop Island Blues" by Koop featuring Ane Brun.

His heart beats with the text tone, and he knows that it’s him. It’s like the tug in your chest when you see a familiar figure in the crowd, as if your heart races towards it before your mind can even place it.

Zayn knows what’s coming, but he doesn’t think he’s ready for it yet. The last song rendered him catatonic for hours and conjured up a montage of scenes from a day he thought he had locked up in his memory house.

There’s a multitude of things he would change if he could go back to that day; but mostly he thinks he should have hugged him, kissed him goodbye, asked him to stay one more time. He’d thought that clinging to him desperately would push Harry over the edge. But not doing anything just pushed him away even more.

Zayn had always thought he’d come back. Harry always did. They’d yell and bite and leave claw marks until one of them burst out laughing or stormed off in anger. But they’d always find their way back to each other. They’d finish their collapse and pick up right where they left off. Zayn knew that Harry always needed to leave. But he always came back. He always did.

So Zayn waited for him to return.

But Harry never did. 

_Hello, my love. It’s getting cold on this island._

The morning after was as achingly sad as only the most ordinary things can be. It’s the unbearable stillness of an empty house as he woke up alone in bed. It’s the silent phone on his bedside table and a familiar shirt peeking out from under his pillow. It’s lighting one cigarette after another to help him forget and sending slurred voicemails he’ll eventually regret.

_I’m sad alone. I’m so sad on my own._

It felt like living in a new house, in a new city, with its empty spaces waiting to be filled up with things that bring ephemeral bliss. Every surface barely touched so as not to disturb the delicate strangeness that blanketed the entire place like layers of dust.

Zayn took refuge in his bed, oblivious to the chaos outside. He lay awake each night, resurrecting past lives and drowning in a pool of what-ifs.

_The truth is, we were much too young. Now I’m looking for you or anyone like you._

Zayn never minded being alone, but he never once fancied being lonely. So he sought solace in temporary fixes – booze, cigarettes, a touch, a kiss.

The few times he let Louis haul his ass out of his house and into somewhere new, his only hope was to find a corner to stumble into with somebody else – someone as equally lonely and alone as he was. A slew of someones collapsing on his side of the bed – shared breaths, tangled limbs, no promises, no strings.

(None of them were him. No one will ever be him.)

Eventually, he had to stop. It distracted him from sadness and kept him warm; but it always left him worse off in the morning, when the night’s allure had dissipated.

_Now you’re looking for me or anyone like me._

Harry began dating a model, whom he had photographed for a magazine editorial, about a month after he left him. Zayn’s not surprised; Harry could never stand being alone for a long period of time.

Louis managed to force it out of Niall, who relented after he made Louis promise to leave Harry alone. “He’s trying to be happy, mate. Let him, yeah?” Niall had said, to which a drunk Louis responded with: “No. He doesn’t get to be happy when he’s the one who fucked Zayn over.”

Zayn appreciated his best friend’s fierce loyalty, but he’d always wanted Harry to be happy. Even if it’s not because of him. Even if it’s not with him.

Harry was last seen trudging through the busy city streets in his expensive boots and a floral suit. His hair was cut short - it no longer cascaded in soft curls around his shoulders. He looked taller, leaner, older.

A few years ago, the mere sight of Harry would have immediately sent Zayn into a tailspin. A few beers ago, he would have slurred curses into his phone and woke up with another nameless person’s taste in his mouth. A few tears ago, he would have wallowed in maudlin self-pity.

But he’s fine now. Or at least, he’s trying to be.

Harry’s no longer his, but he’s still everything to him – sea glass, the smell of coconuts, a pink pout, a rose ring, the gold wall in his living room, alcohol that burns, a glass of something sour and sweet. He’s the tattoo on his hip, his 4 a.m. thought, his 11:11 wish. The answer to everything is Harry: favorite color, favorite taste, favorite curse word, favorite hiding place, favorite sound, favorite weather, favorite for now, favorite forever.

Zayn could never forget. Even if his brain tried to, his heart never did. It never could.


	6. We’re slaves to our impulses, we’re afraid of our emotions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "So Sorry" by Feist.

There’s no reply when he wakes up. But it doesn’t bother him anymore. Harry thinks it might be better this way. Sending these songs to Zayn is like giving him an all-access pass to his heart, if his heart was an empty house softened by the warm glow of a fireplace. It’s dimly lit and eerily quiet, but the embers are still red and the place is still warm.

Harry doesn’t think he’s ever fallen out of love with Zayn. He loved him even when he tried to forget him. Even when he tried to love someone else. He’s always been the type of person who does what he wants so as not to leave room for regrets. But he knows now, as he knew then, that leaving Zayn was the biggest mistake he’s ever made.

So he begins today with an apology. A quiet lament for the one good thing that kept his hearth alight.

_I’m sorry, two words I always think after you’re gone. When I realize, I was acting all wrong._

It’s apparent from the first time they’ve met that they’re two completely different souls. They’re separate beings, who have somehow managed to find ways to fit. There’s Harry, who thrives off everyone’s attention and unabashedly shows affection. He draws people in and leaves them wanting more because he never truly gives so much of himself away. And then there’s Zayn, who’s perfectly content in stillness. He exudes enigmatic coolness with his quiet demeanor and reserved personality, but really he’s an open book. He’s generous with his time and attention, and he reveals himself with every artistic expression.

Despite their contrasting personalities, they gravitated towards each other and worked hard to find their common ground. They found their missing pieces in one another and balanced each other out. Yes, they argued. A lot. Mostly about inconsequential things, sometimes about important things, other times they argued just for the sake of it. But they’ve always made up.

Zayn usually apologized first, regardless of whose fault it was, because Harry’s too stubborn to admit when he’s wrong. Sometimes, Zayn would burst out laughing in the middle of Harry’s passionate ranting; it would diffuse the tension and result in frantic kisses, discarded clothes, and tangled limbs. On rare occasions, Zayn would need to leave to cool off and gather his thoughts. That’s when Harry usually worried himself to death because he knew he’d royally fucked up. But then Zayn would come back, and Harry would apologize profusely, and they’d punctuate the day with frantic kisses and discarded clothes and tangled limbs.         

Sometimes, it wasn’t that easy to resolve their differences. Harry’s not proud of it, but running was always his default response to anything. It can be as simple as stepping out of the room to avoid confrontation, or as major as flying a thousand miles away to figure things out on his own. Zayn knew that about him, and he figured out that he’d always come back. And he did. He always did. Except for that one time when it truly mattered.

_We’re slaves to our impulses. We’re afraid of our emotions. And no one knows where the shore is. We’re divided by the oceans._

Harry’s a selfish prick, and he knows that. He wants everything but gives nothing in return. He flitted in and out of people’s lives, made them fall in love with him, then left them when it’s convenient for him. Harry’s selfish, and Zayn knows that. He knew that then, when Harry barreled into his life and demanded to be a part of it.

But Harry also decided to stick around as soon as he felt himself falling for Zayn. He’s never even truly fell in love before, but he let himself fall – and fall, he did – because he wanted to, he really did.

Harry also crossed oceans for Zayn, and he willingly traded the magnificence of different places for the beauty in the mundane. He’d climb over furniture to get to Zayn, close the distance between their lips, link their fingers, revel in the excitement of their proximity.

But there were some distances he couldn’t reach, and he’s terrified that he’s burned his bridges as soon as he left.

_We don’t need to say goodbye. We don’t need to fight and cry. We could hold each other tight tonight._

He wishes he could have done things differently. Harry’s never forgiven himself for what he did. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forgive himself for subjecting Zayn to that kind of pain, for ruining what they had built for years, for destroying the one good thing in his life.

Harry forgets a multitude of things – keys, birthdays, punchlines, phone numbers, directions, his fucking point. He even needs to send himself an email to ensure that he won’t forget his tasks for the next day. Harry forgets a multitude of things, but he can’t seem to forget him. Zayn and his anime eyes, the way he smiled with his tongue between his teeth, the way he said his name. He can’t forget the way Zayn looked when Harry said he was sorry, the way his hands fumbled for his, the pain in his voice when he begged him to stay. Harry can’t forget that fateful day in the library, their first date, their first kiss, their first everything.

But it is what it is. All he can do for now is hope that he still has a chance and pray that it’s not yet too late.

Harry would trade his kingdom for a kiss on his shoulder, his name on his lips, a crinkly-eyed smile. Nothing ever truly mattered without him anyway. There was just him. Only him.

Always him.


	7. I’d give this world just to dream a dream with you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "California Stars" by Billy Bragg & Wilco.

His heart beats with the text tone, and he knows. He knows that it’s him.

Zayn’s been waiting for this moment for over two years now, and he’s terrified of what it means. Nothing compares to the feeling of pterodactyls circling in his stomach as he opens the message.

Usually, if it was from any other person on any random day, he would try to avoid it and delay the inevitable. He would bury his phone under his pillow and go about his day. But since that first song that made his heart crawl out from its hiding place, Zayn doesn’t think he can ignore it anymore. He doesn’t think he can ignore him anymore. Zayn doesn’t know what Harry wants; he doesn’t know what he’s trying to say by sending him these songs. Is it an apology? A desperate plea? A ringing declaration of emotion? Just a hello? Or, gods below, a final goodbye?

Zayn sits on his living room floor with Rhino by his feet. He leans against the couch and looks at the wall that Harry insisted they paint gold a few summers ago (“When the afternoon sun hits the wall, it’ll look like it’s catching on fire! You’ll see.”). They spent hours - with a few interruptions – painting it in liquid gold. Harry sang along to every song on the record player and got more paint on his clothes than on the wall. Zayn did most of the work, but he never complained, because all he ever wanted was to make sure that Harry was happy.

And he was.

After they were done, they sat on the floor with their wine glasses and watched the wall catch fire (“You’re right, this is pretty cool.” “See? You should always listen to me.”). They had pizza for dinner, finished a whole bottle of wine, and fell asleep on the floor. That was it. That was their day.

It was pretty uneventful, but it was one of Zayn’s favorite memories with Harry. He enjoyed the adventures and grand gestures, but what he remembers most are the subtle moments. Like Harry trying to stay awake to keep Zayn company while he studied for an important exam. Or asking Zayn to stay a little bit longer with him in the car just to finish listening to a song. Or leaving him notes everywhere – bathroom mirror, jacket pocket, notebook, his forehead – to make him smile. Or visiting Zayn’s mother every weekend to learn how to cook his favorite food. Little things like the sound of his laughter, the smell of his shampoo, the color of his eyes, the curls that escape from his bun, his smile.    

Zayn’s never been sure of anything since the moment Harry left. But he knows now, just as he knew then, that this was it for him. Harry was it for him. Nothing else could compare. Nothing ever could.

He thinks he’s ready for Harry Styles to cut him from all angles again. So, he clicks on the link and listens to the song.

_I’d like to rest my heavy head tonight on a bed of California stars. I’d like to lay my weary bones tonight on a bed of California stars._

Their first date was on a Friday.

They went their separate ways after that day in the library – too focused on acing their final exams to think of anything else.

“Thanks for today,” Harry said, as he stood up. “Good luck on your exams.”

Zayn’s lips twitched into a grin. “Thanks. I’m sure you’ll ace yours.”

“From your lips to God’s ears.” Harry’s eyes traveled down from Zayn’s mouth then back up to meet his eyes. He looked like he was about to say something else but then decided against it. Instead, he flashed him a smile that made his dimples curve in and his eyes light up. He waved goodbye then left in a flurry of curls and dimples and that damn coconut shampoo.

Zayn didn’t think about Harry after that. He was far too busy with his exams and final requirements to even spare a thought for the curly-haired boy with the stupidly endearing smile and haphazardly buttoned shirt. But as he was flipping through his notebook for a quick review, he saw a pink Post-it note stuck on one page. “Friday?” it said, in loopy handwriting.

Two things that came to his mind after reading the note:

  1. Harry left it for him to find.
  2. Zayn’s going to ace that test.



Both were true, of course. There’s no exam that Zayn couldn’t ace, and nobody’s brazen enough to touch his notebook without permission. Still, they didn’t exchange contact details that day and Harry didn’t leave his number on the note, so there was no way for him to send a reply.

Zayn heaved a euphoric sigh of relief after his final exam then ventured out into the midday sun. He slumped onto a bench next to his favorite tree on campus, intending to rest for only a few minutes. Zayn didn’t mean to fall asleep, but he did, and when he woke up, it was late afternoon and someone was singing next to him. He stretched luxuriously then tipped his head back to see who it was.

Harry was leaning against the tree with his earbuds in and his eyes closed as he sang along to an unfamiliar song. Zayn looked at him upside down and admired his low, raspy voice. He sat up just as he noticed Harry slowly opening his eyes.

“You sleep like the dead,” Harry commented.

Zayn stretched his arms over his head as he yawned. “You sounded good.”

Harry looked away to hide his blush and quietly muttered, “Thank you.”

“That’s my favorite tree you’re leaning against, you know,” Zayn told him.

Harry tilted his head to look at the tree in admiration. “Does it have a name?”

“I call him Rodger,” Zayn said, looking proudly at the majestic tree that’s been keeping him company since he first stepped foot on campus.

“Rodger,” Harry repeated, as if testing out the name on his tongue. “Oddly enough, it suits him.”

Zayn watched Harry fondly as he placed a careful hand on the tree’s trunk and quietly said, “Hello, Rodger. Nice to meet you.”

Harry turned to look at Zayn again then smirked. “Do you often sleep in public places?”

“No, I just wanted to rest my eyes for a bit.”

“I’m not judging. I can totally sleep anywhere.” Harry stood up, dusted off his jeans, then sat down on the bench next to Zayn. “One time, I fell asleep while floating on a beach.”

Zayn snorted. “I believe you.”

“Did you dream of Friday?” Harry asked with a cheeky smile.

Zayn quirked his eyebrow. “I don’t even know what Friday means.”

“Well,” Harry began in his schoolteacher voice. “It’s the fifth day of the week. Frigg’s day. She’s the Nordic goddess of love, you know. Among other things. Associated with the planet Venus, the color green, fish, shopping, the number 13, and Jason Voorhees. It’s also POETS Day. As in-”

“Piss Off Early Tomorrow’s Saturday?” Zayn interjected.

“Exactly,” Harry said. “So, what do you say? Do you want to piss off early tomorrow and go out with me?”

“Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Obviously.”

“Okay.”

Harry flashed him a sloppy smile. “Today I might be mad, tomorrow I’ll be glad. ‘Cause I’ll have Friday on my mind,” he sang. “Do you know that song?”

Zayn shook his head in response.

“It’s a good one. You should listen to it.”

“Okay.”

Finally, Harry stood up and held out his hand. “Walk you home?”

Zayn took it and never let go.

Harry drove Zayn to the park and introduced him to Robin, his favorite tree. Earlier that day, Harry knocked on Zayn’s door and presented him with a bouquet of all things Friday: 13 handpicked flowers wrapped in green paper, a book of Norse mythology, a DVD of _Friday the 13 th_ (“I don’t like horror movies, but I’d watch this one with you if you want.”), and a CD of Friday songs.

“You’re really taking this whole Friday thing seriously,” Zayn commented.

“Friday’s our thing,” Harry said. “Of course I’m taking it seriously.”

“Oh, it’s our thing now?”

“Yes, Zayn, it’s our thing. Next time, it’ll be your turn.”

“The day’s not even over yet, and you’re already planning the next date?” Zayn asked, amused.

“Yes, there’s going to be a next time,” Harry replied, confidently. “And no, I’m not planning it. You are.”

Zayn would be lying if he said he wasn’t charmed. “Okay then. I’m ready to be whisked off and impressed now.”

Harry packed them a picnic. He brought out a red quilt and laid it down next to his favorite tree. From his wicker basket, he took out crackers, cold cuts, cheese, grapes, orange slices, chocolate, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. He carefully arranged them on the blanket then lit two vanilla-scented candles. Harry grabbed his phone and selected a playlist, which served as their soundtrack for the evening.

Zayn pushed away from the tree he’d been leaning against to sit next to Harry on the quilt. “Wow.”

“Impressed?” Harry asked.

“Very,” Zayn replied, taking the wine glass from Harry.

Harry poured the wine then lifted his glass in cheers. “To many more Fridays.”

They clinked their glasses together then Zayn took a sip of his wine. “Oh, that’s good.” He took another sip and closed his eyes to savor the taste and bask in the warmth that spread from his throat down to his toes. “I don’t usually like wine, but this one’s really good.”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “I’m glad. I actually swiped this from my stepfather’s stash.” He gave Zayn a sheepish smile. “I don’t want you to think that I can actually afford to buy wine.”

Zayn snorted. “Here I thought I’ve finally snagged me a rich one, who can keep me in the state to which I’m accustomed.”

They ate their food as they traded stories while songs from the 1950’s played in the background. There was no talk of standard first date things – favorites, firsts, basic information. Instead, they talked about random things. Harry told him about his stint as a baker and how to make chocolate croissants. He talked about his friend Niall and his weird golf obsession. Meanwhile, Zayn told him about Louis and their late-night adventures – tagging walls, skateboarding in abandoned swimming pools, hanging out in laundromats and 24-hour diners. He talked about tattoos, his menagerie of pets back home, and missing his mom’s cooking.

It surprised Zayn how easy it was to talk to Harry. Usually, Zayn preferred to listen rather than participate in the conversation. But Zayn found himself sharing things he’d be embarrassed about if it was with anyone else. He also enjoyed listening to Harry’s stories, reveling in his syrupy and raspy drawl. It was easy to laugh with him as well. Harry was funny without trying to be, but when he did try, his jokes were so bad that they were good. He laughed with his eyes squeezed shut and every time he opened them, Zayn was welcomed with a shock of green.

Harry was in the middle of telling him about a duck or a movie or a baby – he wasn’t really paying attention because he was too focused on Harry’s ridiculously pink mouth – when Zayn interrupted him with a kiss. He didn’t know if it was the wine or just Harry being Harry, but Zayn felt compelled to lean over and kiss the corner of his mouth.

Zayn’s eyes widened in surprise and sputtered out an apology. Harry flashed him a sloppy smile then leaned over to press a soft kiss on his lips. “Anyway,” he said, picking up right where he left off with his story. Zayn stared at Harry in awe as he watched his pink mouth move and his hands gesture wildly as he spoke.

After a while, they polished off the wine and lay down on the quilt. They stared at the night sky while Johnny Mathis crooned in the background.

“What song were you singing yesterday when I woke up?” Zayn asked.

“California Stars,” Harry replied. “Do you want to listen to it now?”

Zayn nodded then closed his eyes as the song played.

_I’d like to rest my heavy head tonight on a bed of California stars. I’d like to lay my weary bones tonight on a bed of California stars._

He felt Harry reach down to hold his hand and intertwine their fingers.

_I’d love to feel your hand touching mine, and tell me why I must keep working on. Yes, I’d give my life to lay my head tonight on a bed of California stars._

“Technically, we’re lying under California stars,” Zayn pointed out.

“Did you notice the geometric pattern on this quilt?” Harry asked with his eyes closed. “It’s called a California Star.” He opened his eyes then turned to Zayn. “So literally, we’re on a bed of California stars.”

Zayn laughed so hard, his back arched. Harry collapsed into giggles soon after.

_I’d like to dream my troubles all away on a bed of California stars. Jump up from my starbed and make another day underneath my California stars._

“You know,” Harry said around the end of his laughter. “I’ve read that if you have a good dream on a Friday night, you have to make sure to remember it until the next day. If you tell someone about it on Saturday morning, your dream will come true.”

Zayn smiled as he realized that they’re still holding hands. “Well, I’ll be sure to tell you all about it tomorrow then.”

_They hang like grapes on vines that shine, and warm the lovers glass like friendly wine._

Zayn chokes back a sob as he listens to the rest of the song. It’s such a Harry thing to do – hitting him with a freight train of emotions with no preamble.

“Fucking hell, Harry,” he mutters to himself.

Zayn lies down on his bed as in that summer from long ago.

_So, I’d give this world just to dream a dream with you on our bed of California stars._

Zayn grabs his phone and puts the song on repeat. He falls asleep and forgets to send a reply.


	8. Come away with me in the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from "Come Away With Me" by Norah Jones.

Today’s a Friday. And on this most hallowed of days, Harry sends the final song. He doesn’t think he’ll get a reply from Zayn, but he knows he’ll learn to be okay with it.

Harry set out to woo him at first; he sent carefully selected songs he knew would conjure up good memories. But along the way, he ended up giving a piece of his heart with each song until all that’s left of it is a flayed organ in a cage of bones. Harry knows that he ruined the best thing that ever happened to him, so he made a promise to himself that he would do anything to get Zayn back. But upon further reflection, he realized that the only thing he wants the most is for Zayn to be happy. Even if it’s not because of him. Even if it’s not with him.

Still, he has to try. One last time.

_Come away with me in the night._

Fridays were always their thing. But so were Saturday breakfasts. Every Saturday morning, they’d meet at Harry’s favorite diner with the jukebox that played vintage music and the wait staff whose names he knew by heart. They’d talk about their dreams (if they ever remembered them) over stacks of pancakes, bowls of fruit, and copious amounts of coffee per Zayn’s request. Zayn was never a morning person, so it meant a lot to Harry that he would show up at eight every Saturday for him.

One day, Harry said, “Last night I dreamt that we dropped everything, got in the car, drove away, and disappeared completely.”

“Where did we go?” Zayn asked.

Harry shrugged. “Do you think we can do it? Someday?”

Zayn chewed his pancake slowly as he pondered the question. “I don’t know. I don’t think I can leave my family just like that. And Gemma already left for greener pastures, so it’ll just be your mom and her cat.”

“That’s true,” Harry muttered. “Niall would bite off his fingernails due to severe stress. And Louis would hunt us down and kill us for disappearing on him.”

Zayn snorted. “That’s true, too.”

Harry looked out the window and didn’t say anything for a few minutes. “It’d be nice though, don’t you think?”

“Yeah.” Zayn offered a strawberry to Harry, who leaned forward to take the fruit with his mouth, his lips brushing over his fingertips. “Maybe we can start small, like driving aimlessly for the weekend or something.”

“Find a motel or a lovely bed-and-breakfast tucked in the woods?”

“And maybe even solve a murder.”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

Zayn reached out to poke the dimple on his cheek. “Anytime you want, babe.”

Harry smiled at the ridiculously beautiful boy, who somehow managed to fall in love with him. “Maybe someday.”

Thinking about it now, Harry wishes that he had just dropped everything and drove off into the sunset with Zayn. They had plenty saved up and they could get a job anywhere if they ran out, so all they had to do was pick a destination. But he took too many jobs and enjoyed traveling alone far too much that he had forgotten their maybe somedays.

_I want to walk with you on a cloudy day in fields where the yellow grass grows knee-high. So won’t you try to come._

Now he writes down everything so he won’t forget. Harry has a brown leather notebook filled with memories and unfulfilled promises. He even takes note of random things like Zayn’s fascination with outer space or how he’s the only one who can beat Harry in a game of Scrabble. The way Harry fit perfectly in the curve of Zayn’s shoulder, or how he loved sleeping next to Zayn as much as he enjoyed sleeping with him.

He knows he’s an odd duck, but Zayn put up with his strange ways and weird habits. Harry remembers when his weeping fig died (“Zayn, Robert Plant died!” “From Led Zeppelin?” “No, my ficus plant!”) and Zayn cheered him up (“I read somewhere that plants absorb evil spells cast upon you. That’s why they die even when you’ve properly taken care of them.” “So, he died protecting me?” “Well, you did name him after a badass.” “That’s true. Thank you, Robert. I’ll miss you.”). Stupid things like getting lost in a field of flowers or falling off the top edge of the couch while trying to get the perfect shot. Annoying stuff like fast-forwarding to the end of the movie before watching it from the beginning, or asking Zayn to sleep on the phone with him when he was miles away.

Harry also remembers the simple things – Zayn sleeping on his shoulder as he queued up a Packers game, or that warm feeling he gets when Zayn sends him “saw this and thought of you” messages. Eating cheap takeout food on the living room floor while listening to Harry’s old records, or seeing Zayn nestled in rumpled sheets, his face soft with sleep. Watching Japanese game shows to cheer Zayn up when he’s sad, or Zayn making his mom’s soup when Harry’s sick. Harry waking up from a bad dream in the middle of the night and a half-asleep Zayn pulling him closer to comfort him.

He remembers the big things like coming home with Zayn for the holidays to meet the entire Malik clan. Or trying to calm down a nervous Zayn a few hours before he was to meet his family. Harry introduced him to Niall, who welcomed Zayn with open arms and declared him as his new favorite. Louis, on the other hand, was a stubborn bastard, who refused to acknowledge Harry’s presence. But when his mom died, Harry made sure to take care of everything so Louis didn’t have to. And after one too many shots of whiskey, Louis cried on Harry’s shoulder (“You’re more than a friend; you’re now part of the furniture. Part of the family.”) then threatened to kill him if he told anyone about it.

Harry wonders what Zayn’s family thinks of him now. If they hate him as much as he hates himself, or as much as Louis does. He hopes they’ll find it in their hearts to forgive him someday. Harry hopes he’ll find it in his heart to forgive himself one day.

_Come away with me and we’ll kiss on a mountaintop. Come away with me and I’ll never stop loving you._

Harry remembers the important things – Zayn asking him to move in with him and Harry saying “yes” in a heartbeat. Or Harry dropping everything to come home and comfort a grieving Zayn when his grandmother died. Zayn holding Harry close when he found out that his stepfather, Robin, was sick, and never leaving his side when they heard the terrible news of his passing. Harry constantly running away. Zayn always asking him to stay.

He remembers the first time Zayn told him he loved him. Harry put on a Marvin Gaye record and coaxed Zayn into joining him for a dance party – flailing limbs, four left feet, and squawking laughter bouncing off the walls in his living room. Zayn blurted out, “I love you” just as the music faded, and Harry, in his surprise, froze in place. Mistaking his silence for rejection, Zayn hastily added, “-in that color. You should wear red more often.” Harry, regaining brain function, held his gaze and said, “I love you in that color, too.”

_And I want to wake up with the rain falling on a tin roof. While I’m safe there in your arms._

There’s one memory that Harry had almost forgotten in his two years of misery. It was a Friday, and they were already dressed up to go out that night. Harry’s been away for months, and he was about to leave again, so that was the only time they could squeeze in a date. Unfortunately, the universe stepped in and decided to rain on their parade.

Harry slumped ungracefully to the living room floor in frustration, not even caring about ruining his pink silk suit as he rolled onto his front. Zayn called for pizza, brought out the most expensive bottle of wine in their stash, then sat down next to Harry.

“I’m sorry,” Harry mumbled.

Zayn poked him on the cheek. “You didn’t make it rain, babe.”

“I might as well have,” Harry said with a dramatic sigh. “I always fuck things up.”

“That’s not true.” Zayn poked him on the cheek again. “Look at me.” Harry rolled onto his back then turned to look at him. “It’s not your fault. And we can still turn this into a date.” Zayn pulled Harry up by his hands to a sitting position then leaned forward to nudge him with his nose. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Harry said with a smile.

Zayn pressed soft kisses to Harry’s temple, his forehead, each eyelid, his nose, each cheek, his chin, the side of his neck just below the ear. “I’ll turn off the lights so you can bring out your favorite candles and light as many as you want. Pizza’s not exactly romantic, but we’ve got wine and rain lightly – well, angrily – tapping against the windows. That’s fine, right?”

Harry leaned forward to kiss Zayn on the shoulder. “That’s perfect.”

After the pizza’s gone and they’ve polished off the wine, Harry put on a record then plopped himself down on the floor next to Zayn.

“Sade?” Zayn asked, holding his arm out to the side for Harry to come to him.

Harry nodded, slotting his leg between Zayn’s and resting his hand on Zayn’s stomach. “Thought it’d be appropriate with the rain and the candles and the overall mood of the evening.”

Zayn pressed a soft kiss to his forehead then ran his hand through Harry’s hair. “Good date?”

“Perfect.” Harry leaned into the touch and closed his eyes. “Somehow it always is with you.” He started to hum along with the music as Zayn continued to play with his hair. “I will show you, you’re so much better than you know. When you’re lost and you’re alone and you can’t get back again. I will find you, darling, and I’ll bring you home,” Harry sang along to the song.

“Hey.” Zayn nudged Harry with his nose to get him to look at him. “You know how you always go on about how music can say what we can’t put into words?”

“Yeah?”

“If we ever stop talking, send me a song.”

“What, like if we had a fight and we’re both too stubborn to apologize?”

“Well, you’re most likely to freeze me out for several days.”

Harry jutted out his bottom lip in a sulky pout. “That’s true. And I’m sorry. I don’t know why I keep doing that.”

Zayn lightly traced Harry’s lips with his finger. “So, do you promise?”

Harry nodded in response. “We have to link pinkies to make it an official promise.”

Zayn chuckled as he linked his pinky finger with Harry’s. “There. Now it’s official.”

“Oh, when you’re low, I’ll be there by your side, baby,” Harry sang along to the song that inspired their new pact.

A pact that he had forgotten. Until he heard the song that made him think of that one summer with Zayn. The first song that started all of this in the first place.

_So all I ask is for you to come away with me in the night._

What they had was real, and true, and not likely to give up. He doesn’t think he’ll get a reply from Zayn, but he knows he’ll learn to be okay with it.

Harry’s still the same person, who’ll slip away to trudge through solitary pathways. But this time, he no longer wants to be alone. He wants Zayn to come, too.

_Come away with me._

He sees traces of Zayn everywhere, but he hears him as well. Harry hears “Hello, babe” in the roar of the subway going by or Zayn’s laugh in a car horn. So when the phone rings and he picks it up, and he hears a voice that makes his heart crawl out from its hiding place, he thinks he’s hearing things. He loves this voice. God, he’s missed this voice.

Harry wants so many things all at once – an invitation, a plane ticket, a crinkly-eyed smile, a bone-crushing hug, a new chapter, a promise, a kiss. But here, right now, on the most hallowed of days, he thinks that those two words are just about perfect enough. To have this moment, after two years of silence and misery, is like nothing else. Nothing would dare to be.

Even if all he hears on the other end of the line is: “Hello, babe?”

And all he can say in return is: “Friday?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I've created a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/yaygeometry/playlist/6HYjrJBMxW82r1zCLAmbG6) for this fic featuring all eight songs, as well as some that have been mentioned throughout the story.
> 
> If you wish to cry over these beautiful idiots, fangirl over talented zarry authors, discuss music and stories and writing, or just talk about random things, send me a note at https://smoke-flowers.tumblr.com and I’ll reply. I promise.


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